


this one is mine

by pasdecoeur



Series: witcher works [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: All The Tropes, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, GERALT IS THE HORNIEST LAD IN THE KINGDOMS AMEN, M/M, anyway, get it boys!!!!!, i'm going to hell for these puns, so many puns oh my god, sword fighting is so fucking phallic i'm going to CRY., swords are god's dick joke on men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22161391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdecoeur/pseuds/pasdecoeur
Summary: “I’m not always going to be around to pull your pasty ass out of the fire—”“Aha!” Jaskier crowed, triumphant. “So youhavebeen looking!”Geralt’s face got, if it was possible, even stonier, as he continued, “—so you need to learn how to defend yourself.”(Or, Geralt tries to teach Jaskier how to fight. And it’s all very gay, almost at once. 👌🏽😩)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: witcher works [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602823
Comments: 180
Kudos: 4806
Collections: BRNZ_Witcher Sherlock and non GO, Best Geralt, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette, witcher





	this one is mine

**Author's Note:**

> this was written in under an hour and has absolutely not been beta read and there's a tense change somehwere in the middle, but fuck correcting that, we're all just going to soldier on like MEN.
> 
> [title from the US marine corps’ rifleman’s creed: _this gun is my gun. there are many like it, but this one is mine_ , in keeping with the general theme of uh, very homoerotic weaponry?]

“If you weren’t making such a fucking idiot of yourself—“ Geralt began angrily, and Jaskier promptly ignored him because who the hell could bear listening to the man anyway. That was probably the _real_ reason all those girls kept fucking him the moment Geralt met them — it was the only reliable way to shut him up. 

Geralt stripped off his sopping wet shirt. 

_Well,_ Jaskier amended, his throat dry. _Maybe not the_ only _reason._

“—then the bloody selkie wouldn’t have—“

“Wouldn’t have what? Wouldn’t have tried to skin me alive?”

“Or at least try to take a great bloody bite out of your arse,” Geralt allowed, the bastard. 

“Well, you have to admire that, at the very least — a monster with taste.”

“ _What_.”

(Geralt didn’t believe in inflection.)

“It’s a _very_ nice arse,” Jaskier said. “I’ve been reliably informed I’m delicious, and that river monster wasn’t even close to the first person who wanted a bite, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Gosh. Thanks,” Geralt said, words dripping with sarcasm. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Jaskier waved him off regally, and then yanked his own shirt off with considerably less grace. There was an ugly gash running from the bottom of his ribs all the way down his stomach. It burned a little. 

Geralt had gone quiet. Jaskier looked up at him; those amber eyes were locked onto his wound and there was a strange expression on his face. 

“Witcher?” he asked tentatively, and saw Geralt flinch a little, like he was snapping out of some daze. He saw that face shut down hard once more, the slamming of doors behind those too pale eyes. 

“Right,” Geralt said, as if he’d come to a decision. “Look. I’m not always going to be around to pull your pasty ass out of the fire—”

“Aha!” Jaskier crowed. “So you _have_ been looking!”

Geralt’s face got, if it was possible, even stonier, as he continued, “—so you need to learn how to defend yourself.”

And eight that the man pulled back on his still wet shirt and grabbed Roach’s bridle and swung on, with Jaskier trailing after him, wide-eyed and _damp,_ yelling, “Hang on, what do you mean _defend_ myself? Like with a sword? I don’t _do_ swords, Witcher! Witcher?! Oh for godssake, you miserable cunt.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Listen, Geralt,” Jaskier tried again at dinner. “It’s very, um, very kind of you, to, uh. To volunteer to teach me to—“

“I’m not doing this out of _kindness,”_ he sneered. And still looked good. That was a crime, it was. 

“Oh?” Jaskier enquired politely. 

“If you’re going to be following me around and making a bloody nuisance the whole time, you’re going to get _attacked_. Quite a lot. Which means the time I could spend doing better things,” Betsy the barmaid with her massive bubbies arrived on cue to refresh their ales and flash her cleavage at Geralt, “I now have to spend protecting _you.”_

“So this is… time management?”

“Partly.”

“But I’m going to be terrible with a sword!” Oh the puns. All the dirty puns he could have made here about sword-handling and how actually, he was excellent at it. “Really, Witcher, you know how it is: some folks are lovers and some are fighters.”

“And you’re neither, and I’m both?” Geralt was smirking now. Jaskier wanted to punch him in the face. Jaskier’s dick wanted… other things with his face. 

“Hey, now, that is— that’s _completely_ uncalled for—”

Geralt smirked some more. Oh god, if they were sharing a room again tonight, he was literally going to fucking _combust._ “Be up early. Practice starts at dawn.”

  
  
  
  
  


_'Well, bollocks to that,’_ Jaskier had thought, and crashed into a deep and miserable sleep that night, only to have a bucketful of foul smelling water dumped on his head about fifteen minutes later. 

“GLLAAAARGH!! WHAT! What the hell?!” He swiped the foul-smelling water out of his eyes and blinked up at a very pleased looking Geralt looming above his pallet. “Did you get this out of a bloody _outhouse_?!”

“Pig trough. Good morning.”

“Morning?” Jaskier snapped. Was _that_ why it was so bright out. 

“Yes,” Geralt replied. And threw a stick at him.

“Ouch,” he muttered in token protest, and 

struggled out of his bedcovers, idly scratching at his belly, picking up the stick. “What’s this then?”

Geralt was quiet. Jaskier looked up at him. 

His amber eyes were narrow, sweeping down the length of Jaskier’s body. Probably, he was starting to realize how thoroughly unfit for sword-fighting Jaskier was. Or maybe he was just blinded by the glare. Whatever. Jaskier swung the great oaken beam in his face. “Helloooo? What the hell is this?”

He watched with great interest as Geralt’s mouth twitched, and tightened, and his eyes swung up to Jaskier s face— finally. “Practice sword,” Geralt told him. “Yard. Now. And…” Another cursory sweep of his, oh right, _very_ nakedbody — because who wore _clothes_ to bed anyway? — and he added, “Maybe put on some pants.”

Ah. Excellent advice, that. 

  
  
  
  
  


Jaskier stomped out into the yard in his rattiest pants and his oldest shirt, both graying and faded and softer than silk after a thousand washes. 

He held up the sword, feeling very stupid, like he had seen in plays and mummeries. “Now what?”

Geralt was watching him. A couple of local stableboys and the innkeeper’s kids were watching him too, but they were less important. 

“Now, defend yourself.” And then he _launched_ himself at the bard. 

  
  
  
  


Forty-five minutes later, Jaskier had been knocked on his arse no less than eleven times, and the stableboys were exchanging bets on how quickly Geralt would make a tit of him again. 

“Again,” Geralt said, handing him the mud-splattered practice sword, hilt-first.

“No,” Jaskier snapped. 

“ _Again,”_ Geralt insisted. 

“Are you _deaf_ , you addlepated parrot? Repetition won’t change my mind! I said _no!_ ”

“Would you prefer to have nothing to defend yourself with?”

“I would prefer not to be attacked, you fucking lunatic!”

“Fine. Then the next time something big and fanged throws itself at you, I’m going to look the other way.”

“....you wouldn’t.”

Geralt arched an eyebrow. “Would you prefer to find out?” he asked softly, all warm eyes and dark words, low and bedroomy and holy mother of god, Jaskier wanted nothing more than to— to— 

He levered up to his feet with a wordless snarl, and snatched the sword out of Geralt’s hand. “Fine,” He said. “Again.”

And Geralt smiled. 

  
  
  
  
  


It went better after that. Probably, it helped that Jaskier legitimately _wanted_ to take Geralt’s head off his magnificent body. 

Probably, Geralt had provoked him for that exact reason. Bastard. Effective bastard, but still.

“Good,” he murmured, when Jaskier lunged forward in the first volley. “Learn my defenses. Find the cracks.”

Jaskier’s sword smacked into Geralt’s arm a minutes later, and then later slashed against his side. He grinned up at the other man, triumphant, who smiled back. It transformed his face, like watching a sun peer through the clouds after a storm, warm and bright, entirely riveting. 

And then that smile curled into something a little more crooked, and Geralt murmured, “Never, ever let your guard down,” and lightning-quick, shoved his massive shoulder directly into Jaskier’s chest, knocking him to directly the ground. 

The peanut gallery whooped with delight. 

Great. Just great.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Oh you poor, wee thing,” Betsy crooned at him that afternoon, bringing him a massive bowl of stew, and soft, fresh-baked bread. “You must be right knackered after all that rubbish, this morning.”

Jaskier blinked up at her. Was she talking to _him?_ Holy hell, she _was._ “Oh,” he said immediately. “Yes. Yes! Exhausted! Totally, yes.”

She cooed some more. “Poor dove. Let me get you something to drink, shall I?”

“That would be fantastic.”

Betsy beamed at Jaskier — and then turned to Geralt, hands on her hips, face like thunder. “And you! What on earth were you thinking, putting this sweet young lad through all of,” her hand flapped through the air, “ _that?!_ ”

“Training?” Geralt suggested dryly. 

“Training! What’s he need _training_ for? He’s a bard, isn’t he? Lad can carry a tune and play a lyre—”

“—and to sing those tunes, he follows me around while I hunt monsters. Incidentally, I’d _also_ like stew, and something to drink. Thanks.”

Betsy hmmphed, thoroughly dissatisfied, and stomped away. 

“Wow. She’s _brilliant_.”

“You’re drooling.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Everything went great, until that night, when the aches and bruises finally set in, and his whole body turned into one big pile of pain. 

“Huuuuuuuuuurts,” he mumbled into his pillow for the eleventh time. If he wasn’t going to be able to sleep, by the gods, neither would Geralt. 

“Oh fine, get over here.”

“What? No! Your pallet isn’t nicer.”

“Just get here,” he snapped, even as he started to get out of bed to rummage in his pack. 

“What are you looking for?”

Geralt unearthed a tiny glass jar, flat and wide, capped with a metal top. It looked expensive. “This,” he said to Jaskier, who had made it halfway across the loft. “Lie on your front. And take off your— Love of god. Do you _never_ wear clothes to bed?”

“They get in the way,” Jaskier mumbled, sliding into the body warmed sheets. The pillow smelled a little like him, which wasn’t… the _worst_ thing in the world. 

Inns meant regular baths, and regular baths meant Geralt smelled… wonderful, actually. 

“Get in the way of _what?”_ Geralt asked, and then added, “No, never mind, I don’t want to know.” He had returned to the pallet now, and was kneeling by Jaskier. He opened the jar and smeared the contents onto his palms. “This will burn a little,” he said, and before Jaskier could demand _what the hell, exactly,_ was _that stuff anyway,_ two warm broad palms were working down his spine, thumbs digging into the aching muscle, cool fiery trails erupting in their wake.

“Ohhhhhhhhh,” he moaned.

“Good?” Geralt asked. His hands were kneading into Jaskier’s shoulders now, and each deep, hard rub was unlocking secret aches in his muscles, erasing them away. 

“Sooo goood,” he mumbled dreamily. “Where did you learn this stuff?”

“It’s a part of the training. Everyone learns it.”

Jaskier snorted. “Erotic massages are a part of _sword training?_ ” he asked, snickering. 

“They’re just massages, you pervert,” Geralt murmured. His hands were moving lower now, knuckling into the tight knots in his lower back, and then… lower still. 

“Uh-huh,” Jaskier managed. The pain was nearly all gone, now, like magic, and the night was dark, and Geralt was… very close. “Is that what they told you? Master Geralt,” he murmured, affecting a crotchety old man’s voice, “now you must rub this scented oil all over my naked body — for _training purposes._ ”

Geralt sighed. Jaskier could feel the warm breath skate over his naked back, where his skin was still warm. Geralt was rubbing little circles into the base of his spine, and Jaskier would bet all the money he had the other man didn’t even know he was doing it. “Why must you take everything pure in this world and turn it absolutely vile?”

Jaskier shrugged. “It’s a gift.”

“Unbelievable. Go to sleep. Practice again tomorrow.”

“Fabulous.” He started to struggle up to return to his own pallet, which was hard, because all his limbs seemed to have acquired to consistency of beef jelly. A hand landed on the small of his back. 

“Don’t,” Geralt murmured. “Stay.”

And for a second, his throat went utterly dry. Tension sang through his body, and blood rushed to his suddenly alert cock. “But,” He said. “But what about— you?”

“I’ll sleep in your pallet,” Geralt replied quietly. 

“Oh.” He wasn’t disappointed. Shut up. He _wasn’t._ “Right. Of course.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The next day, Geralt moves slower, on purpose. They go through the forms, patterns of parry and thrust, learning each sequence again and again. They break often, and talk each move through. Geralt is patient, infinitely patient, and about halfway through, kind enough to take his shirt off — which is, in Jaskier’s opinion, perfectly good incentive to train every day. 

Which Betsy apparently agrees with, as Jaskier discovers, when she catches him at the lunch table when Geralt’s gone off to see to Roach. 

“Very interesting, watching you two train,” she murmurs to him, refilling his mug, and Jaskier feels a kind of nebulous sigh of disappointment. “He’s a handsome one, isn’t he?”

“Sure,” he says to his ale. “He is that.”

Betsy is grinning at him, conspiratorial. “I can see why you keep him around.”

Jaskier blinks at her. “For the stories, yes,” he tells her. “To write my songs. Man’s got to eat, and all that.”

Betsy rolls her eyes, exaggerated and utterly charming. “Oh, right, the _stories,”_ she says, and then _— winks._ What the the everloving hell…

Geralt returns as Betsy’s sauntering away. His eyes move from the barmaid to Jaskier, narrow and canny. “You too seem to be getting along.”

“Yes,” Jaskier says faintly. “That _is_ what it seems like, isn't it?”

He’s really not sure how to tell the man the whole inn possibly thinks they’re fucking. There’s no clever story for _that._

  
  
  
  
  
  


He settles into his pallet gingerly. Last night was awful - in comparison, tonight, he feels much better. It is, in a way, a little like when he was learning to play the fiddle. He remembers playing until his fingers burned, even bled, before they had toughened. 

Like growing calluses. It’s a comforting thought, the knowledge that it’s only going to get bett—

“How do you feel?” Geralt asks. 

“Hmm?”

“Do you still— Like last night? Do you need…”

Oh. _Oh._

‘I’m fine,’ he ought to say. The words stick in his throat. 

On the one hand, honesty. On the other hand, Geralt’s hands all over him. 

On the one hand, a decent night’s sleep. On the other hand, his cock so stiff and aching, and he won’t even be able to rub it out. 

Oh, who was he kidding. The chances for a decent night's sleep were shot to hell the moment Geralt of bloody Rivia opened his bloody mouth. 

“Yes,” Jaskier says hoarsely. He can already feel the warmth in his cock, the slow building of an ache. “Please.”

He scrambles over to Geralt’s pallet, praying that the dark obscures the shape of his traitorous cock. The jar of ointment is already by the pillow. Geralt planned for this. _…Geralt planned for this?_

Impossible. He swallows thickly, and lies down. 

“This will— I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable last night but…”

“Yeah?”

“This will work better if I’m…”

“Do whatever you need to,” Jaskier says, words muffled into the pillow. 

He can feel the soft rustle of cloth, and then, Geralt has swung one leg over his body, so he’s being straddled lightly over his thighs. His breath chokes. Oh fuck. Oh god. He’s not going to survive this. 

“Is this okay?”

“Yes. Fine.”

Once more, those big, firm hands, and that hot-cold rush. Jaskier trembles underneath it. There’s less purpose to his movements than there was last night. His hands roam everywhere, strong and delicious, and Jaskier’s cock grows harder and hurting, and it’s all he can do, not to rut into the sheets, not to find some friction and desperate release. 

That’s probably why he says it. Because all the blood has evacuated his brain, and it isn’t _working right,_ and so he opens his stupid mouth and says, “You know, Witcher, I’m beginning to think the sword training business was a massive ruse just so you could get your hands all over me.”

“What?” Geralt says, after a very telling pause. “No.”

Jaskier cracks an eye open. “That… wasn’t very convincing.”

“Yes it was,” Geralt protests, like he’s _five._

“Oh my goodness.” Jaskier glances down, and finds confirmation that — “You _do_ think my ass is delicious!”

Geralt frowns darkly. “I— That’s not what I—”

“Oh you ridiculous man,” Jaskier snaps, grabbing one of Geralt’s hands, twisting over to his back between those frankly massive, straining thighs, and wrapping that oiled, slick hand around his hard, dripping cock. 

Geralt strokes him without even thinking, and Jaskier arches desperately into the touch, groaning. 

And then he stops. 

“Why are you— Geralt?”

His eyes are wide and shocked, skittering down across Jaskier’s face, his sweat-damp chest, the curved line of his cock, fisted in that callus-thick hand. It’s easy to recall now, how much better he sees in the dark than ordinary folk — Jaskier can’t help but wonder what he sees. It makes his blood pound, and another bead of clear wet precome slick his tip. 

Geralt touches it with his thumb, smears it around the red, velvety head. Jaskier can tremble in his body, in his thighs and his stomach, the sharp edge to his breathing. 

“Geralt,” he says quietly. “ _please._ ”

And that’s enough. Geralt leans down so quickly he blurs, and there’s a hand cupping his neck, and a hot mouth slotting against his own, and then Jaskier is being kissed, firm and lush and deep, that beautiful tongue fucking deep and slow into his mouth, that hard, rough hand still slowly rubbing his cock. 

It’s like drowning, or maybe flying, he’s surrounded by Geralt, sinking into him. He moans around that tongue, and bucks into his hand, and touches him for the first time, the shockingly soft hair, the skin like silk drawn over steel, the flex of his muscles as Geralt angles them closer. The forge-hot burn of his cock, rubbing steadily against his thigh. 

“Gods,” he gasps, head spinning from the lack of air, when he tears their mouths apart to breathe. But Geralt only moves to his throat, licking and biting, hungry and hard, and his hips are moving harder, quicker; Jaskier slides his hands past the waistband, grips that perfect ass, “Fuck yes,” he mumbles, “come on, harder, I can take it.” 

Geralt touches his mouth, thumb stroking his lower lip. “Filthy,” he murmurs, but he looks pleased. 

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Jaskier promises, squeezing that perfect ass, fingers finding the tight, small clench of his hole, rubbing just a little. 

He can feel the low, hungry growl build in that vaulted barrel of a chest. And if the first kisses had been deep and luxuriant, these are the opposite— Geralt's hands twisting painfully sharp in his hair, teeth and tongue, all savagery. Their cocks slot together, by some miracle of natural physics, and Jaskier moans hungrily into Geralt’s mouth when that superheated brand rubs into his naked dick, clutches his shoulder and arches off the pallet, wrapping his ankles around Geralt’s back. “Fuck!” he cries out, eyes shut, every line of body straining towards the other man, just blindly humping all that hot firm muscle. “Oh fuck, oh gods, I’m going to— Geralt, please, _please_ , I need, I _need_ —”

“I know what you need,” Geralt murmured into his ear, a low, gravelly rush of words, holding up his hips, rutting hard and fast. “You need me to fuck you, isn’t that right, sweetheart? Need me to split you open on my cock? I bet you could just from that, couldn’t you? I could fuck you open, and milk your pretty cock, get you come all over yourself with nothing but your hole clenching on my dick.”

Jaskier whimpered, images rushing through his mind, shaking with it, his head straining against the pillow. “That’s it,” he could hear Geralt murmuring. “Now. Come for me, now,” and like some secret key had been twisted and unlocked, Jaskier strained and shook, and felt his cock pulse with come, felt it string out of his balls, felt like half his blood had exited out of his body. 

And then Geralt was curving over him, that massive red cock just grinding into his softening prick, and Jaskier rubbed his back, still dazed, whispered, “Come on, Come all over me, I want to feel it, I want to taste you, come on, come on.”

Geralt’s shout muffled into the curve of Jaskier’s shoulder, his shoulders trembled like an earthquake, and then there hot wet coating his belly, his dick, his thighs, slow aftershocks running down that beautiful body. 

He stroked Geralt’s back through it all. Felt him settle on his side, and then curled them together, like mismatched parentheses. 

“So,” Jaskier murmured, a little while later. “Sweetheart, huh?”

“Leave it,” Geralt growled. 

He cackled, but nicely. “Nuh- _uh_. You _like_ me. You _liiiiiiiiiiiike_ me.”

“You’re awfully confident.”

“I am.” Jaskier paused. Something cold and small and scared twisted in his gut. “I should be, shouldn’t I?”

And then there was a hand reaching out to his own, and familiar fingers twining together with his. Sword-calluses, lyre-calluses. Maybe someday they’d match. The cold went away, and all the space it left was golden.

“I always knew you’d make an excellent swordsman,” Geralt murmured slyly. 

Jaskier paused. “Hang on.” He scrambled up, to stare properly at the other man. “Did you just— was that a— was that a _joke?!”_

“Well,” Geralt continued, grinning widely now, and it made him so young, so gloriously beautiful it was hard to even look at him, “I guess you did rub off on me.”

“Oh my god.” _PUNS. HE WAS. THE WITCHER WAS._ ** _PUNS!!!!!_** “Oh my _god,”_ he shrilled. _“PUNS?!”_

“Too much?”

“No, shut up, what the hell is wrong with you, I’m going to fall in _love,_ you saphead,” Jaskier snapped, and then bent down to kiss that beautiful mouth again. 

“So,” Geralt murmured a little later. “Love, huh?”

“ _Leave it,_ ” Jaskier growled. 

“Me too, though,” Geralt admitted, soft, like a confession. 

“Oh.” It came over him again, that hot cold rush all over his skin, like magic, and it occurred to Jaskier for the first time that that might not have ever been the ointment at all. “That’s good,” he whispered back. Their hands twisted, and their breath fogged, and in the dark, there was no way to tell where one ended and the other began. “That’s very— good.”

**Author's Note:**

> AND THEN THEY WENT DOWN FOR A VERY (VERY!!!) LATE BREAKFAST THE NEXT MORNING AND BETSY WAS ALL, “DID YOU GET YOUR STORIES, BOYS????? THEY SOUNDED VERY INTERESTING!” AND JASKIER WANTED TO DIE.
> 
> thanks for reading! if you liked this fic, remember to hit kudos <3  
> find me on tumblr [@ **pasdecoeur**](https://pasdecoeur.tumblr.com/)!


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